Diplomacy Awry
by Aconitum-Napellus
Summary: Spock/Chapel. Mature Content. When Spock innocently drinks Malovian vodka at a diplomatic function, a hangover is the least of his problems.


In these days of Federation expansion and consolidation, diplomatic conferences were nothing unusual. The gathering at Babel had been the mere beginning. And since starships were the most massive and fast-moving craft in the Federation's possession, with the best facilities, and very often with malleable and far-travelling schedules, they had become, Kirk liked to believe, the Concord of the twenty-third century. Increasingly scientific and exploratory missions were run to the schedules of diplomatic events across the Alpha Quadrant, the ship was filled yet again with irritable and argumentative diplomats, and the captain found himself acting less master of the ship than master of ceremonies.

The Malovian conference, at least, was a relatively simple assignment, almost completed by now. The ship had picked up various ambassadors from the few planets along their current route – most notably Earth, Alpha Centuri, Vulcan, and Andor – and had just that morning brought aboard a large group of Malovian diplomats for the three day journey to the carefully chosen, neutral site of the conference. The one and only event planned for this trip was an evening reception on the day of the Malovians' arrival on the ship, and it promised to be a pleasurable and relaxing evening.

The ship's largest recreation room had been transformed. Tables were filled with inoffensive, bite-sized Malovian delicacies and a range of Malovian wines and spirits. Artworks had been placed with great care along the walls. Lighting had been set that created a soft, more intimate feel to the large room. The _pièce de résistance_, though, was the entertainment that the captain had managed to procure. He had expected very little from his ship-wide call for anyone of musical talent to come forward to perform that evening. Spock would have been excellent with his lyre, and perhaps with Uhura's accompaniment, but both were officers of the bridge, and required to attend as guests rather than to provide the entertainment. The ship's head nurse, however, was not an essential on the guest list, and it was she who had stepped forward with a talent that Kirk had never for a moment suspected.

Spock was standing rather diffidently at the side of the room when the music began. He had little to discuss with diplomats, and Kirk was occupied with exchanging polite nothings with some of their new guests. He had not even spared a glance for the stage area until this moment – but the clarity and purity of the music above the hubbub of those around him drew his gaze directly to that small raised plinth at the back of the room.

To Spock, it was as if he had never seen Nurse Christine Chapel before. He never *_had*_ seen her before – not like this. There she was, sitting on an ordinary recreation room chair upon a nondescript grey plinth, in a long blue gown the colour of cornflowers, her golden hair loose and falling about her face, her sky-blue eyes focussed intently on the strings of the cello that she cradled between her thighs. Her feet, curiously, were bare.

The bow moved slowly in her hand, resonating on the strings at a pitch that seemed to vibrate straight into the centre of the Vulcan's chest. It struck Spock, against all logic, that the bow was a natural extension of her long, delicate fingers – that it had grown organically from her body.

He stood, silenced by fascination, as the music that she was producing flowed around him like the waters of a stream.

In all of his time on the ship, he had never known that Nurse Christine Chapel was adept at the cello. His own Vulcan lyre suddenly seemed clumsy – coarse even. So simple compared to this…

He took the glass that Kirk pressed into his hand without looking at it. It was expected to drink alcohol at functions such as this. So he would drink alcohol. It was logical, since it would do more harm, diplomatically, to refuse. And he would watch, with rapt amazement, as the professional, crisply spoken, scientifically-minded Head Nurse of the _Enterprise_ wove a web of magic about him with something as intangible as music.

'She's good, isn't she?' Kirk asked finally in a low voice, close to his ear.

Spock nodded, momentarily tearing himself from the performance to glance at his captain.

'Yes, she is – ' He found himself, unusually, at a loss for words. 'She is – good,' he finished lamely.

Surely it could not be as warm in here as it felt? If he had been human he would have pushed his finger under the tight collar of his dress uniform in an attempt to let in some air. He glanced down at the pale green liquid in his glass, wondering if the alcohol was having any effect on him, whilst simultaneously raising it to his lips to take another sip with the thought that it may settle these tremulous, flushed sensations that were rippling through his body.

'Are you all right, Spock?' Kirk asked curiously, noticing how unusually agitated his first officer seemed.

'Oh, I am – quite fine, Captain,' Spock said, rigidly pulling back a semblance of control. 'Perhaps the influence of our guests. It is possible…'

'Yes, of course,' Kirk nodded sympathetically.

The Malovians were telepathic – Kirk had noted that with interest at the briefing for this event – and they were also highly emotional. It was not beyond the bounds of possibility that the mass of Malovian minds in the room were in some way impacting upon his telepathic first officer.

'Can I pour you some more vodka?' he asked.

'Oh.' Spock looked down, appearing to notice for the first time that he had drained the glass almost dry. 'Yes, if – you think it advisable, Captain,' he said with unusual uncertainty.

'Well, all the Malovian food here has McCoy's seal of approval,' Kirk reassured him. 'Nothing harmful in it whatsoever. And they do get highly offended when they see someone with an empty glass…'

'Then it would be prudent to fill my glass, Captain,' Spock said, seeming to pull himself back to a rather more normal attitude.

He stood holding the fragile fluted glass out to the captain as Kirk poured more pale Malovian vodka into it, then took another sip, his attention being drawn back irresistibly to the stage as the music swelled into the room.

******

Later, he found himself watching her as she left the stage. He found himself noticing that the dress she wore was scoop-backed, and that she obviously wore no supporting garments beneath it, because the pinkness of her skin was unfettered from the string of blue jewels at her neck to the deep curve of the dress at the base of her spine.

He followed her out of the room like one entranced. Perhaps it was the effect of the alcohol that Kirk had continued to press on him. He did not know. He only knew that he was possessed of the giddy urge to *_make*_ something of this unusual fascination that had crept over him, and every tiny Vulcan devil that was sitting at his shoulder speaking of logic could go back to hell where it belonged.

She noticed the footsteps behind her, and turned.

'Oh, Mr Spock!' she said in surprise. The pleasure in her voice was obvious, and it warmed Spock to the centre of his being.

'Christine,' he said, taking a step towards her.

She almost retreated in surprise at his unprompted use of her first name – but the low, deep timbre of his voice kept her rooted to the spot.

'Christine, I wished to tell you – that you appear highly attractive tonight,' he said, mentally swatting those Vulcan devils back against the wall.

'Mr Spock – have – Mr Spock, I saw Captain Kirk pouring you a lot of Malovian vodka,' she faltered in confusion.

'Indeed he did,' Spock nodded. She had been watching him, then, even as she played. 'However, alcohol only relaxes the mind – it does not *_change*_ it.'

He took a step closer to her. Her lips parted with a tiny, wet noise, but she did not speak.

'It does not change it,' he said, and suddenly he knew precisely what those lips felt like under his, and how soft the bared expanse of her back was under his hand.

She exhaled under his touch. His hands covered an astonishingly large amount of her back, and they were moving, constantly, tracing her spine and the edges of her shoulderblades, and dipping just very slightly beyond the low-cut back of her dress to tease along the very tops of her buttocks. She was frozen with amazement, melting with desire, and deeply, deeply confused at what seemed to be occurring in the middle of an innocuous _Enterprise_ corridor. Could this really be happening?

Spock was conscious of nothing but desire. Fireworks had exploded in his mind. It was as if touching her tongue with his tongue had unleashed something that had only previously been loosened by the alcohol. It was as if pon farr had overcome him again, so soon. He was pressing himself upon her, feverish, urgent, trying desperately to consume as much of the taste and feel of her as was possible without causing injury. They stumbled across the corridor as one, and by some wondrous stroke of chance a door slipped open behind Christine's back, and they found themselves in one of the ship's tiny, two person meeting rooms. These places were reserved for intimate meetings – but they had never been intended for a meeting quite as intimate as this.

His hands were everywhere, almost by their own impulse. He was discovering that she did indeed wear no support beneath the dress. He was discovering that the dress unfastened oh so very easily, and that she had taken the chance that evening of wearing no underwear at all, lest the lines of it ruin the look of that very expensive, very exclusive evening gown.

That gown was now pooled about her on the floor, and she was utterly naked, every inch of her body alert with the stimulation of Spock's touch. She was pressed against one of the soft armchairs, gasping as his tongue stroked her body, when suddenly some sense of rationality came back to her.

She closed her eyes, unbelieving of what she was about to do.

'Mr Spock,' she said breathlessly, grasping his wrists with both hands, forcing them to pause in their exploration of her naked body. The strength in the sinews of his wrists was incredible, and it was obvious that it was only Spock's own self control that was preventing him from breaking away.

'You're not yourself,' she continued. 'You – *_can't*_ – be yourself. This – isn't in your nature.'

There was an animalistic growl in Spock's voice as he said, 'It is very *_definitely*_ in my nature tonight. The logic of that is undeniable.'

Yes, perhaps it was undeniable, she thought, as she realised that his clothes were peeling from his body, removed by both his hands and hers in the heat of lust, and she could see it there, his erection pointing towards her as if it was trying by its own will to come closer to her body. Every objection in her mind was so nearly erased by the sight of that hard, eager shaft. Her body burned to take it within herself. But – she stared into his eyes, trying to see into the depths of his pupils, trying to understand the unwonted fire that burnt there.

'Mr Spock,' she murmured. 'Really – think about this. I should go. Really, I should go…'

'You are not moving,' Spock pointed out. 'You are not moving at all.'

'I – ' she faltered.

It was as if she had never seen another man before this moment of her life. There he stood, half undressed, his skin flushed with blood, his eyes glinting with desire. The dark hair swirled on his chest, trailed down to circle his navel like a whirlpool, led so very inevitably to his pelvis, to the rearing length of his erection that was alive with hot, hot blood and tipped with moisture for the desire of her. She reached out a hand like one reaching to touch a wild animal, letting her fingertips touch and then stroke across the tight ridged skin of his scrotum, and he moaned, a low, animal sound…

'Christine,' he murmured, his hands straying finally to the curls of hair between her legs, seeking into the furrows there, finding wetness and spreading it over her as she arched with pleasure. He sank his mouth over her breast, kissing and then nipping hungrily at her as his fingers pulsed between her legs, and she moaned with the need for satiation. Any objection left in her was erased by the overwhelming force of his desire. He was murmuring in Vulcan between kissing and teasing at her body with his tongue, his deft fingers seeming to be everywhere, giving her pleasure in ways she had never thought possible. She had no idea what he was saying, but she had never realised that the Vulcan language could sound so _*erotic_*.

'Oh, God…' she murmured. 'Oh, God…'

He lifted her bodily, thrust the chairs aside as he held her under the back with one arm, and then placed her on the floor as gently as he would set a delicate experiment down in the lab. And then he was entering her, the full width of his penis slipping into her as if it was returning home and wished never to leave again. Her hands were on his buttocks, feeling the tightness of his muscles flexing as he moved within her, pulling him back to her every time he withdrew. And she melted into exquisite, mindless pleasure…

******

They lay exhausted, sprawled across the carpet in the small room, naked skin against naked skin, stuck to each other with mingled sweat. The chairs and the table had been tumbled aside, and lay askew against the walls. She was back-down on the carpet, the surface of it itching her back as she lay there. Spock was still atop of her, still partially inside her, panting, his hands tangled in her hair, when the door opened…

'Oh – Jesus,' McCoy said in a horrified voice.

Spock barely reacted, but Christine stiffened as if electrified.

'Oh, Jesus,' McCoy repeated. 'Oh, God, he's going to kill Jim when he finds out…'

'Finds out *_what*_, Leonard?' Christine asked in a steely voice, inwardly amazed at the dignity she could muster in her voice in this situation. She could not bring herself to look at McCoy – all she could see was the shining, highly polished leather of his boots, and the bottoms of his trousers.

'I – er – '

McCoy came into the room just enough to allow the door to close, then turned resolutely to the wall, keeping his eyes on its blank greyness.

'That vodka the captain was giving Spock to drink. It – er – Well, we found out it induces – pon farr-like symptoms in Vulcans… Drunken pon farr…'

Spock was very still for the space of thirty seconds. And then he said, darkly, something that was completely unintelligible to the two humans in the room, but that was definitely not positive.

'I – er – beg your pardon, Spock?' the doctor asked, still looking away, sounding as if he did not ever want to speak again.

There was silence, then Christine offered tentatively, 'I – think – it was a Vulcan swearword, Doctor.'

'Er – I see,' McCoy said slowly. 'Well…' he said. 'Well – for now – I'm going to leave the two of you alone,' he said slowly. 'I'll – er – I'll throw some – er – necessaries through the door for you, and – I'll fix a lock on it. Perhaps you should have – '

'You don't say,' Christine said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

She closed her eyes, listening as McCoy's footsteps slowly retreated, and the door slid open and closed again. She could feel Spock still on top of her, but he had gone from lying with the relaxation of a sun-struck cat to the pent-up tension of a guard dog, every muscle taut and quivering with unspent energy.

Spock withdrew himself from her, and stood up, stepping backwards with a dazed expression. With his clothes ripped, his trousers and underwear pushed down about his knees, he would have looked comical, had it not been for the sudden seriousness of the situation. He looked very much like someone recovering from a blow to the head.

He pulled up and fastened his trousers as if he could not quite comprehend how they had come to be crumpled about his legs in such a way. His eyes moved to hers briefly, then flickered away, and he moved sideways with an impenetrable air of dignity, his hands closing purposefully on the chairs and the table as he moved them back to their proper places. There was something about the care he took to make sure that the furniture legs were placed precisely in their echoes in the carpet that spoke volumes about his state of mind.

Christine curled herself up to a sitting position, suddenly struck with a crawling self-consciousness, and she sat in a carefully composed manner, her arms and legs covering everything that she felt it necessary to cover.

Spock pulled his torn clothing back over himself as completely as was possible, and sat down in one of the armchairs, looking ridiculously like someone waiting for a meeting to begin. His gaze was focussed on his own knees, his hands clenched over the arms of the chair. His trousers, at least, were not torn like his top and underwear were.

She slowly slipped her evening gown back on, and then sat with concise precision in the chair opposite Spock. She could leave now, if she wanted to. Her hair was untidy, but her dress had suffered no damage. But Spock's blue dress uniform top was ripped and crumpled, the braid about the neck hanging off limply. His eyes moved like a hunter's to something glinting under the table, and he leant forward and picked up his IDIC medallion, and placed it with exaggerated care back onto the fabric of his top. She could not leave him to sit alone in this room, and await McCoy's return with fresh clothing, so she sat with him, silently, and waited.

******

Spock sat in the calm and quiet of his room trying his hardest to meditate. It was impossible. No matter how silent and warm and relaxing his surroundings were, the maelstrom in his head would not let him be still.

How… How could this have happened? Surely there would have been some…

No. He shook his head – and immediately regretted the movement as his skull throbbed. This, evidently, was a hangover. He had never had a hangover in his life before this, and he intended to never have one again.

He moved to his small cooking alcove, and poured himself a glass of chilled water.

No. There was no way anyone could have known the effects of the Malovian vodka. Pon farr itself was barely known outside of Vulcan, and Vulcans so rarely drank alcohol that the chances of the effects of the drink being picked up were roughly two million, sixty eight thousand….

Spock sighed. The equation did not matter. What did matter was what he had done. No amount of meditation or logical reasoning could erase that. He had abused his position on the ship. He had abused Christine Chapel's feelings for him. He had been found, _in_ _flagrante_, lying on the floor of one of the ship's public rooms with her by Dr McCoy, of all people…

And the tremors of sexual desire were still thrilling through him. He had been a fool. He had been an uncontrolled, animalistic fool. He had exposed both himself and a woman that he respected deeply to public view in such an intimate, private act…

No. At least he had only exposed them to McCoy, and the doctor, true to his word, had brought them precisely what they needed to make themselves presentable, and had not mentioned the matter since. The doctor had insisted that he come for a medical check-up at some point in the next twenty-four hours to be certain that there were no further effects from the drink, and had left it at that. Dr McCoy, at least, was capable of being discreet.

Of course, disciplinary action was a possibility. For the first officer of the ship to commit such an act, for the son of the Vulcan ambassador to commit such an act… And to commit it just after the close of a diplomatic function, when foreign dignitaries from all over the federation were still on the ship, possibly passing by in the corridors, possibly hearing what McCoy had heard that had led him to look in through the door…

If it had not had been for the nurse he would have brought disciplinary action against himself. McCoy would not mention it, though. He would have every right to mention it, but he was certain that he would not. Above all else, McCoy was a kind and decent human being, and his mentioning the matter would bring benefit to no one. Spock could not imagine standing before the captain and trying to explain to him exactly _*why_* he had done what he did. He could not explain that even to himself.

He was at a loss as to what to do. How could he uphold ship's discipline and ignore his own unforgivable breach? Jim, no doubt, would urge him to forget it. *_We're all human_,* he would say, forgetting that the very fact that Spock was *_not*_ human was what had caused this problem. But if someone else had heard, had looked in, and they had not noticed… What if his own father had been the one, leaving the function and returning to his quarters, who had opened the door, curious at noises that might have suggested someone in pain?

No. He could be rational about this, at least.

He activated his computer. He used his considerable skill to enter the security logs, to find the precise camera that monitored that section of ship's corridor, and to scan through the recording of that area at the appropriate time. A very human relief flooded him as he saw that although many people had passed through the corridor, including his parents, the only person to spare a glance for the door was McCoy.

But the room's own security log? His relief shrivelled away. It was highly unlikely that anyone would ever have cause to watch that video – but still, it was there, sitting in the ship's memory banks like a virus waiting to spread.

Spock accessed _*that_* particular log, and new shame sank down over him as he caught a sped-up glimpse of what had occurred. Intercourse, he observed, was rarely aesthetically pleasing in retrospect, and this particular example was no exception.

In perfect knowledge that this breach of discipline was a far graver offence than the one he had already committed, Spock erased that portion of the log, overlaying the gap with the recording of the empty room from the same period the night before. He was, he knew, committing an offence worthy of severe penalty, but he at least had the skill that allowed him to alter the log in an almost undetectable way. Kirk had observed in the past that Spock would make a formidable criminal. At times, that dubious accolade was a distinct advantage.

Spock withdrew from the security computer banks, covering his traces as he left, and turned off the computer secure in the knowledge that no trace had been left there, at least, to betray either him or the nurse.

But the traces remained in himself… He could still feel the lingering biological urging that felt so like the aftermath of pon farr. He could feel the evidence in his body of his burst of activity, of precisely what he had done… It had been a very long time since he had indulged in behaviour even close to this. What had it been? Something approaching two years since Leila Kalomi and her enticing softness, and the spores that had released his inhibitions?

Spock shuddered. It was hard to think of _*that_* time without shame. But that had been different. That had been gentle, and gradual. It had not been a storm such as this. And Leila had been left far behind him. Miss Chapel was here, on the ship, a constant presence. He worked with her frequently in the labs. He was treated by her in sickbay. And he – yes, he cared for her. He had to admit that. He may not have intended to act on his feelings, to complicate a perfectly adequate working relationship, but he admired her, and enjoyed her company, and found her attractive. Had he destroyed any chance he may have had for future happiness with this one rash act?

Did he regret the act itself? He considered. Ironically, it was his emotions clouding his ability to judge such an emotional, biological act. In logic he had done very little wrong. He had been acting partially under an external influence. Pon farr itself proved how impossible it was to resist the influence of certain chemicals and hormones in the body. And intercourse was, after all, logical. No Vulcan would exist without it. It was logical to select a suitable mate and attempt to propagate his genetics. The most illogical existence, after all, was that of a monk. Was it, after all, his _*feelings_* towards Christine Chapel that were causing him so much trouble.

Spock sighed. There was only one logical solution to this, and that lay in talking to Miss Chapel.

Christine.

The thought of her forced sensation and scent to rush back to him. The feeling of her underneath him, the smoothness of her soft feminine body along the length of his masculine one, touching at every point. The soft noises she had made, and the taste of her mouth, and the feeling of her surrounding him…

He closed his eyes, rigidly calling upon discipline. Obviously the alcohol was still affecting him.

But – how could he go to her, and look her directly in the eye, and ask her to help him? They had parted in utter silence, each respecting the other's perceived need for privacy, and he had not found it in himself to contact her since. But he would have to speak to her at some point. He would have to explain. He would have to apologise, if nothing else, and hope that she would have the grace to forgive him.

Of course she would. He knew that. He was the only one who was utterly without grace at this moment. She had always been able to hold on to dignity, no matter what assailed her. Humans could be so very good at that…

******

At that precise moment Nurse Christine Chapel felt that she had very little dignity to call on. She stood in her quarters, wearing no more than an oversized t-shirt, checking and folding her expensive evening gown with steady hands that felt anything but steady.

'Jesus, Mary and Joseph,' she muttered as she returned the dress to its pristine box. 'Jesus, Jesus, Jesus…'

She could still feel his hands all over her body, burning her with their touch. She could feel his lips, and the heat of his breath, and hear the little fevered noise of desire he had uttered as he had taken her. It had honestly been the most erotic experience of her entire life.

But that had been shattered. It had been shattered by the door opening, and by her friend and superior officer walking in on her, and by the bombshell that Spock was acting only because of a drug in his bloodstream, nothing else…

She needed a shower. She didn't know if it would help calm her mind, but it would certainly help to scrub away the sticky, matted traces of Spock's artificially induced lust. Some part of her wanted to cling to every trace that he had left on her body, but she knew that the best thing was to move on, to return her body at least to normal.

But oh, she could feel him. She could feel the echo of the girth of him, the power of him inside of her, the weight of him on top of her. She could smell the scents of him, rising up on the warmth of her own body, and feel the dried places where his tongue had tasted her, and where his sweat had lain upon her, and…

She sank back into a chair, hugging her arms around herself in a pathetic echo of post-coital closeness, drawing her knees up to her chest and resting her forehead down upon them, and the scent of him assailed her even further. Oh, she was so alone…

The urge to cry suddenly overwhelmed her, and she gave in to it, sobbing as if she had just experienced a death. All these years, all those fantasies, and for it to all end in this… Perhaps she had experienced a death. How could she continue on this ship after what had happened? How could she be professional in her job?

And then the doorchime buzzed.

When Spock saw her as she opened the door, eyes red-rimmed, face tear-stained, cautiously pulling her over-long t-shirt down over her thighs with clenched hands, he took a step backward, and almost excused himself and fled. But then he steeled himself. It was inevitable that strong emotions would be involved in this matter. He would simply have to face them.

'Miss Chapel,' he said in a steady voice. 'May I come in?'

She hesitated, her fingers pulling aimlessly at the hem of her t-shirt. She felt very naked underneath. And then she nodded her head, and said simply, 'Yes.'

She stepped back to let him pass, and he walked into the room with a false confidence that had been practised over many years.

'May I speak with you?' he asked, and she said again, 'Yes.'

'I – hope that you can see me without despising me,' Spock said quietly, seating himself in one of her chairs.

'Oh, I don't despise you, Mr Spock,' she said sadly as she sat down nearby. 'Neither one of us forced the other to do anything. I certainly wasn't drunk, and just because your actions were prompted by a chemical…'

Spock shook his head quickly. 'Miss Chapel, I must correct you on one thing,' he said firmly. 'I may have committed an act tonight that was influenced by Malovian vodka, but when I first saw you on that stage, creating music with such dexterity and skill, and wearing – ' He swallowed awkwardly. ' – that garment – I had consumed no alcohol. As I watched you, the rest of the room ceased to exist for me. I drank the alcohol that the captain gave me with barely a glance toward the glass, because my eyes were upon _*you_*.' He hesitated a moment, then asked, 'Does that information comfort you in any way?'

'Oh, it – ' she began. He could see that the information _*had_* helped her simply by the degree of relaxation that moved through her frame. 'It _*does_* comfort me, very much, Mr Spock,' she smiled, her eyes focussed firmly on her own knees.

'Christine, would you look at me?' he asked softly, reaching out a hand toward her face.

She raised her head, and as her eyes met his the clear barrier that had raised between them at the moment that McCoy had opened the door seemed to drop again.

'Perhaps something was needed to – break the ice – of our relationship,' Spock said, suddenly feeling self-conscious in a very different way to before.

That oddly shy smile that he had seen so many times before flashed across her face. Confident in almost every walk of life, it was a smile she reserved only for him.

'That was a hell of a way to break the ice,' she commented.

Spock's eyebrow rose. 'Indeed it was,' he nodded. 'You may be gratified to know that I have – ' He cleared his throat. 'Strictly in confidence, Christine, I have altered the security logs. No record remains of our – '

'You – _*sabotaged_* the logs?' she asked incredulously, sparing him from having to verbalise what had occurred between them. 'Mr Spock, surely that's – '

'Highly illegal,' Spock nodded. 'Yes, I am aware of that. Nevertheless, I have done so.'

'Your father's on board for this conference, isn't he?' she asked curiously.

'He is,' Spock nodded. He tilted his head. 'I admit that I am particularly anxious that word of what happened does not reach his ears.'

For some reason she tittered at that statement, and a noise passed Spock's lips that sounded curiously like a half-born, hastily stifled laugh.

'Mr Spock, you're still being affected by the vodka, aren't you?' she asked suddenly.

Spock pursed his lips, attempting to steady his thoughts.

'I am, residually, still affected by the vodka,' he admitted. 'But only to the extent that I am feeling rather more relaxed than usual, and perhaps rather more – ' He cleared his throat. 'Rather more – ' he tried again.

'Horny,' she said bluntly, and his eyebrow shot up under his fringe.

'Not the term that I would choose,' he began.

'You wouldn't have chosen _*any_* term,' she pointed out.

He tilted his head. 'Not necessarily true,' he said. 'One of the effects of the alcohol, I believe, is to allow me to speak with less reservation than I am accustomed to. I have been able to discuss – feelings – with you that I would normally keep silent.'

'So – when you wake up tomorrow morning,' she began.

Spock gave her the ghost of a regretful smile.

'When I wake up tomorrow morning I will be sober. I will be more controlled. But that does not mean that everything that I do at present is not a reflection of my true self. I am able, under perfectly normal circumstances, to give something of myself once a relationship has been established. Can I suggest, Christine, that we – make the most of this time, to establish a relationship?'

She smiled – and then the intercom buzzed. She flicked the switch and said in a tired voice, 'Chapel here.'

'Uh – Christine, is – er – is Spock there? ' McCoy asked anxiously through the speaker. 'I can't locate him in his quarters or public areas.'

'I am here, Doctor,' Spock said evenly. 'Did you require something?'

'I wanted to be sure you were all right. I also wanted to schedule an examination for you, tomorrow morning. You too, Christine.'

'Me?' she asked in surprise. 'Why me, Leonard?'

'Because you just indulged in what I assume was unprotected sex. I want to be sure that your contraceptive injections are up to date, and check for – er – '

'It is standard practice to check for venereal disease, I assume,' Spock said tolerantly.

'Standard practice if I put myself forward for examination,' Christine pointed out. 'But I really don't see the need, and my contraceptive injections _*are_* up to date.'

'All right,' McCoy said reluctantly. 'But I still want to see you, Spock, nine o'clock sharp. I want to be sure all that vodka's out of your system, and there aren't any residual effects.'

'Of course,' Spock nodded. 'Will that be all, Doctor?'

'Yes, that will be all,' McCoy said with an air of relief. 'See you tomorrow, Spock.'

'Goodnight, Doctor,' Spock said, and cut the channel.

******

Spock woke surrounded by a number of curious sensations. The clean scent of a human beside him (He remembered the – rather interesting – shower he had taken last night, and almost smiled). The cool feeling of human skin next to his skin. The chill of air-conditioning set for human comfort touching his bare arm, and the warmth of the extra blankets piled over him. The residual biological sensations of a certain amount of unaccustomed physical activity clinging to his body. And the trembling, pounding, aching pain of a severe hangover.

He tried to swallow, but his throat was too dry. His tongue felt as if it had swelled to enormous proportions in his mouth. The light was painful to his eyes. He cleared his throat of a good deal of phlegm, and the woman beside him was startled awake.

'Christine, is this – ' he began in a hoarse voice.

She focussed on him, and smiled, reaching out for the medical scanner that she kept beside her bed by habit.

'Yes, it's a good, honest hangover – nothing more,' she told him, examining the readings. 'Perfectly normal.'

'Not for me,' Spock rasped.

She stirred herself, getting out of bed to fetch him a glass of water. Spock's eyes followed her as she moved across the room. She was completely naked, and completely un-self-conscious, and he had underestimated how enticing such a sight was once he had let his barriers down.

'I'd suggest hair of the dog,' she said with a smile, coming back to him. The front view was even more enticing, and he momentarily closed his eyes. 'But perhaps that wouldn't be wise…'

'Hair of the – ' His voice cracked. He took a swallow of water, then tried again. 'Hair of the dog?'

'Oh, it's just an expression. The quite illogical idea that a small amount of whatever gave you the hangover will make you feel better.'

Spock's eyebrow rose.

'Humans are most illogical,' he said. 'I do not believe I will be sampling Malovian vodka again.'

He turned to look at the clock, and blinked. It was quarter to nine. He did not believe he had slept so late in a very long time.

'Shall I fix you some breakfast?' Christine asked brightly. She, of course, was suffering no ill effects from alcohol. She had been on stage the whole evening, and had drunk nothing but water.

Spock swallowed, quelling a wave of nausea.

'No, thank you,' he said. 'The water will be enough.'

She sat on the edge of the bed, her gaze softening, and then becoming a little more hesitant.

'You – are all right, aren't you, Spock?' she asked softly. 'You don't regret – '

Spock shook his head sharply, then pressed his hands to his temples as his head gave an extra throb.

'No, Christine,' he said. 'I – believe I came to a decision last night, before I came to see you. I decided that of all the people who may understand what had happened, _*you_* were the one who would be most forgiving, most understanding, and most ready to accept me even after I succumbed so completely to emotion and physical desire. The only logical course of action after that realisation was to pursue a relationship with you. I am content with what happened.'

She stared at him for a moment, taking in the sight of him, ruffled by sleep, bleary-eyed, with untidy hair. She had never seen him like this before. She could not express how curiously attractive she found him in such a dishevelled, vulnerable condition.

'Then I'll see you later,' she said with a smile. 'I'm not on duty until midday. You'd best be going, or Leonard will wonder where you are.'

******

Spock thought it quite possible that McCoy would implode with awkwardness on meeting him that morning. Spock lay calmly on the examination table, in his black trousers and black undershirt, apparently completely at ease. McCoy, however, was fumbling with his instruments and staring intently at readings, and doing everything possible to prevent direct communication or eye contact with the first officer.

'Doctor,' Spock said eventually. 'Surely if either one of us has cause for embarrassment it is I, not you? Yet I can face you with equanimity, whereas you are in serious danger of allowing your embarrassment to impair your ability to examine me.'

'Yeah, well, it wasn't exactly my idea of a fun time, thinking someone was hurt, and then coming across your naked ass on the floor of a meeting room,' McCoy muttered.

Spock shot him a look. Perhaps he had managed to control his own feelings in the matter, but it was not an image of which he wished to be reminded.

'Doctor, may I suggest that we focus entirely on the matter at hand,' he said. 'You called me here, I assume, to check on any after effects of the vodka. Anything else has no bearing on the matter.'

'No,' McCoy muttered. 'No, Mr Spock, you're completely healthy in every other way.'

'Every _*other_*?' Spock repeated, noticing the implications of his wording.

'Nothing to worry about,' the doctor said quickly. 'You're obviously suffering a hangover, and there are some residual effects still – there will be until all the vodka's out of your system. You might just feel a little more – um – ' He cleared his throat, and then said, 'You may find yourself more – sexually charged – than normal.'

'I see,' Spock said, after a moderate pause. 'Well, that is – '

He trailed off, and reached for his uniform top.

'May I?' he asked the doctor.

'Oh, sure,' McCoy said quickly. 'I've finished with the examination.' He hesitated, then asked awkwardly, 'So, Spock – did you – um – I mean – did you sort everything with – Christine?'

Spock finished pulling his top over his head, and regarded the doctor, his hair as unruffled as always despite the dressing and undressing.

'You need not concern yourself, Doctor,' he said. 'The situation is quite resolved.'

'Ah,' McCoy said slowly, very aware that Spock had given absolutely nothing away about _*how_* he had resolved the situation. 'Well, Spock, on the plus side,' he began more brightly, and Spock's eyebrow rose. 'Yes, there is a plus side,' the doctor nodded. 'That being that it's possible that pon farr like symptoms would have pon farr like results. It could have killed you, Spock.'

'And there is no antidote?' Spock asked, his voice suddenly very grave.

McCoy shook his head. 'Find an antidote to that, and you've found an antidote to pon farr – and then you'd be a very rich man indeed. If you hadn't – acted on your instincts – then there's a chance we wouldn't be standing here having this rational conversation now.'

Spock exhaled, straightening his top.

'I would suggest putting out an alert to Vulcan Medical, informing them that Malovian vodka is poisonous to Vulcans,' he said. 'And, of course, that there is a possibility that other Malovian foodstuffs are also harmful.'

'I'll do that,' McCoy nodded. 'I'll send it round all major Federation medical organisations, including Starfleet. Oh, and let me give you this,' he said, injecting a ruby-red substance into the Vulcan's arm. 'I don't give this out, as a rule – don't like to encourage irresponsible drinking – but you've obviously got the mother of all hangovers, and it's not exactly your fault.'

'Thank you,' Spock nodded. 'Well, if that is all, Doctor, I will be on the bridge,' he said.

'Uh, wait up,' McCoy said quickly. 'I'm signing you off duty, Spock, just for today. With all those chemicals running round your body, I think you're better off staying down below, until you're sure you're okay.'

Considering that common manifestations of pon farr included irrational violence and poor judgement, Spock had to concede that the doctor was right. He nodded, and left, calling Christine via the hallway intercom, and arranging to meet her in one of the recreation rooms for coffee.

'I believe that sharing coffee is a more conventional way to begin a relationship,' he confided to her as they sat at a secluded table in the corner of the room.

She smiled brightly. 'Mr Spock, aren't we doing this all backwards?' she asked.

Spock tilted his head. 'One often finds that accepted norms are unsettled when one is in space,' he said.

She laughed, raising the coffee to her lips and taking a welcome sip. She may have had no hangover, but the first coffee of the morning was still a treat, especially after the long day she had had yesterday.

The doors to the rec room opened, and Spock's mother, Amanda, entered. She went straight to a replicator and ordered a large cup off coffee. Christine watched her, idly at first, but then with piqued interest, as she realised that the older woman looked tired, but also curiously satisfied.

Amanda turned from the replicator, scanning the room for a table – and her eyes fell first on Spock, and then on Christine sitting beside him. Spock gave her a slight nod of recognition, then dropped his eyes back to his drink, obviously feeling a little self-conscious at being seen by his mother sitting with the nurse.

Christine smiled at her in a friendly way – and then, as their eyes met, an odd look of realisation seemed to dawn in both women's eyes. Amanda stared for a moment, her mouth slightly open, then she turned, and quickly left the room.

Spock was silent for a moment, then he said, 'Odd behaviour,' and turned his attention back to his drink.

Christine looked at him.

'Mr Spock?' she asked him curiously.

'Yes, Christine?' he responded, turning towards her.

'Sarek is the only other Vulcan on board the ship at the moment, isn't he?' she asked.

'Yes,' Spock nodded. 'Entourages were not encouraged for this trip. The conference area is apparently quite small.'

'Spock,' she said in a more meaningful tone. 'If you drank the Malovian vodka, because it would have been discourteous to refuse it – I assume your father did too…'

But that was another story…


End file.
